


Moving Forward

by Sarah_Ellie



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Ao3auction, Comeplay, Complete, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Recovery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Ellie/pseuds/Sarah_Ellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q could still remember every single burn, every lash, every time one of the disgusting captors touched his body.</p><p>[Please note that this fic could be triggering, so read with caution]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the winning Ao3auction bidder, Sommer. 
> 
> Many thanks to Jen(Consultingwriters) and Dalekfighter1190 for their second glances!

Chapter One

It had been three days in the bowels of some god forsaken abandoned building, chained to a pipe by the wrists and stripped naked. Q could still remember every single burn, every lash, every time one of the disgusting captors touched his body. There were three of them. They liked the marks that they left behind and the way that Q refused to scream. 

They wanted codes and passwords, the location of undercover MI6 and MI5 agents, algorithms to break into major banks and security systems. For the first day, Q denied knowing anything. He was just a regular guy, a graphic designer who knew nothing. They didn’t believe him. On the second day, Q slipped, and verified his identity. After that things got much, much worse. By his own calculations, if he wasn’t found in five days, he would be dead. 

Bond found him just before midnight on the third day, bloody and bruised and beyond broken. He picked the lock on the cuffs and wrapped Q in his suit jacket, pulling him close. The captors were no longer a threat, but Q was unable to get up from the floor; he wouldn’t allow himself to be moved. For a long while, Bond sat on the floor with Q in his lap, stroking his fingers through Q’s long dark hair and letting the Quartermaster sob with every aching movement. When they finally left the building, Bond lied to M and said that they had encountered a complication during the extraction. Not even the MI6 files knew about Q’s breakdown, his moment of pure weakness. It was a secret that remained only between Q and Bond. 

After a week in medical, Q was allowed to go home. He hadn’t initially shared a flat with Bond. They had only been dating for about ten months. Over the course of the first week, however, Bond slowly moved himself into the flat. There hadn’t been much to bring over, anyway; some suits and a particularly expensive television that Bond never used. Regardless, Q didn’t have to spend the nights alone, and that made the darkness- so similar to the hellish basement- easier to deal with. 

Some evenings he woke up with the smell of damp and mildew in his nose, and he would barely make it to the toilet in time to retch what little food was in his system. 

Those nights, Bond would follow Q to the bathroom. He lingered in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame and a glass of tap water in his hand. If Q was able to get back to his feet and stumble back to bed, Bond would push Q’s hair off of his forehead and kiss his temple, soothing him back to sleep. On the nights where the mildew and damp smells were mixed with nightmares, of visceral memories, Bond would move into the bathroom and sit with his back propped up against the tub so that Q could curl up against his chest, pulling away occasionally to redirect his attentions to the toilet. 

He supposed the he was lucky that Bond took to the changes in their relationship so easily. Bond never mentioned the sex that they no longer had, or commented on the way that Q flinched if Bond touched the scars on his back. Why the agent stayed with him, he had no idea. Originally, Q had been the “whole” one- the one to be the rock, the balance when Bond returned from onerous missions. It had been Q’s job to keep tabs on how quickly the scotch disappeared and check Bond’s numerous wounds for signs of infection. He had even been responsible for late-night stitches, sewn with a steady hand. He helped Bond quit smoking once, twice, three times, and never said a word when it didn’t take. 

But then it was Bond’s job to make sure that Q was keeping his head above water. He had been shelved from his MI6 duties “in the interest of getting the Quartermaster back to operating capacity,” according to Tanner. R took over most of Q’s Research & Development projects, and outfitted most of the 00 program for assignments. Q’s days at MI6 were focused on coding, with negligible social interaction outside of James Bond, who rarely left his side. That brought some comfort to Q, who was torn between the suddenly overwhelming streams of numbers and letters and codes, and the inevitable boredom that set in when his brain was forced to focus on only one thing at a time. 

Each day Q arrived in Q Branch before any of the rest of his staff. He would settle into his office while Bond left to train in the fitness facility. The agent would return within the hour, just as R arrived and the rest of the staff began logging onto their computers. He took up guard in a chair next to Q’s desk. While the Quartermaster coded, Bond would go through intelligence files- paperwork and analysis that consisted of the far less glamorous side of being an agent- for the other 00s. His specialty was in Asian intelligence, where at least two agents were currently stationed- one in Jakarta, the other in Beijing. He would analyze for hours, occasionally using one side of Q’s desk. They worked like that- in silence, save for Q’s background music- for the better part of the day, stopping only when Moneypenny came down to the office at lunchtime. She would eat with them both, offer polite and friendly conversation, and then leave them to an afternoon that was nearly identical to the morning. Once Q was certain that all of his staff had left, he would finish a section of coding, and murmur to Bond that they could go home. 

They shared a cab, lit the flat’s lamps, and Q would cook dinner. Some nights they curled close on the couch, watching senseless television. Others, Q would withdraw into a book or his laptop and was once again lost to Bond. Most nights Bond would excuse himself to take a long shower, always after Q had nestled closely to him. If it bothered Q, he never said anything. In fact, they didn’t talk about it at all. Instead they went to bed, Q’s hand tucked into Bond’s, and repeated the pattern all over again the next day. 

The unfortunate bit was that ultimately, sex was what had brought the two of them crashing together. Q had needed sex, craved it. Bond needed something to help him come down from his adrenaline highs, sure, but it was Q whose brain craved physical release. The complex strings of code, the mathematics, the constant looming threat of failure, kept his nerves on edge. The only way he had found to be able to release even a fraction of that tension was sex, and so he had indulged in it often. Bond was a logical choice; already vetted, a well-known aficionado on the subject, and discrete.

The relationship that eventually built up around the sex was not so much a decision but a natural development. They began to go on dates, spend the night at Q’s flat, and occasionally were affectionate in public.   
When Q was abducted, Bond had to fight M to be the one to extract him. In the end, Bond played the relationship card, and M was too taken aback to properly refuse. 

It wasn’t quite serendipity, but it would do.


	2. Chapter 2

It took the better part of four months, but slowly, Q began to take on his former workload. The changes started when Q began to walk around the branch again, checking in on staff projects. He began to leave when the rest of the branch did at the end of the day.   
When he went back to look into the R&D projects, initiating a project on new, undetectable trackers, Bond was taken off of his guard duty. The agent still wasn’t sent out on international missions, but M began to utilize him as top-tier security for diplomats and CEOs.

Meanwhile, Q began to outfit the 00s again, and he became the primary contact for agents in the field. Five months after his abduction and torture, Q was working nearly at full capacity. To any outsider, he was fully healed and back to normal. 

Only Bond knew otherwise. The nightmares-while less frequent- were still occurring at least three times a week, Q remained sensitive to touch over most of his body, and they still were not having sex. The only difference was that Q spent his entire day working tirelessly on projects that overrode his body with adrenaline and nerves. 

Initially, Q tried masturbating in the shower to relieve the pent up tension. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to have sex with James- in fact, he missed it desperately. To make matters worse, he knew that Bond was even more sexually frustrated than Q, but that he was hiding it. 

It was a damn near luxurious feeling, stripping his fist over his cock while he showered; the water replicating the warmth of touch on his back without the self-consciousness involved in his extensive scars. But it wasn’t enough, and Q knew that it never would be.   
Five months after his abduction, and he was standing in the shower after a laborious orgasm. He felt even more frustrated, and turned the water up to a scalding heat and let it run over his skin, as if it would peel away the very effort that he had made to find some sort of mental ease. 

He wanted Bond; his hands, his tongue- but he wasn’t ready to have sex yet; that much he knew. But the thought of going to Bond, after damn near neglecting the man for months, was agony. As patient and loving as Bond had been, the guilt still pooled heavily in Q’s stomach, and he had no idea how to break the pattern that had been created. 

Q stepped out of the shower, drying off his feet on a high pile rug that lined the outside of the tub. He pulled a grey towel from a hook on the wall and dried off his body before he threw it into the corner and pulled on a pair of black pants. He paused, staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

The front of his chest was clear of scarring- he had been found with some bruises from well-aimed kicks, but his torso had been otherwise unharmed. It was his back, which had been exposed to the room, which had taken the most damage. The cuts latticed from his shoulder blades down his spine and mingled with burns on his lower back and down to his thighs. The scars from the cuts weren’t so bad- that had been when Q was still denying his identity. The abductors hadn’t moved on to burning marks into his skin until he had accidentally admitted to being from MI6. 

There was a knock on the bathroom door. 

“Q? Are you alright?” Bond asked, his voice muffled by the wood. 

“I’m fine, James.” Q replied, turning away from the glass. It occurred to him that he was trapped; he couldn’t remain hidden in the bathroom, Bond expected him to leave. He couldn’t just leave, however- not with all of his scars exposed. 

The bathroom door opened suddenly, and Q was about to yell in panic, when Bond’s hand appeared, holding a shirt. The door wasn’t open more than it needed to be for Bond’s arm to fit through, and Q realized that the shirt that was being held out to him was the linen one that Bond had been wearing that afternoon. Q took it, fingers brushing over Bond’s, and realized that it was still warm to the touch.   
Bond had quite literally taken the shirt from his back and given it to Q. 

Steeling himself, Q shrugged the shirt over his shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned in the front, and opened the bathroom door the rest of the way. Bond was standing on the other side, reticent smile on his face. 

“I was thinking of ordering takeaway.” Bond said. His eyes swept over Q’s skin, and he shifted slightly in the doorway. 

“James…” Q trailed off, his voice felt as if it had been lodged in his throat- the pointed ends of the words that he was trying to say caught on his tongue and his esophagus and the roof of his mouth. 

“What’s wrong?” Bond asked, eyes immediately dark with concern. 

“No-nothing.” Q assured him, walking through the bathroom doorway and into the bedroom. He paused, glancing at the bed. 

“Q, talk to me.” Bond murmured. He took Q’s hands in his, and gently mouthed along Q’s jaw. He finished with a soft, chaste kiss to Q’s lips before backing away slightly. 

“We just…” He had no idea how in the hell to start, and the kiss was stirring something inside of him- something desperate. “We haven’t… not in awhile.”

It was a nod to just how long it had been that Bond was immediately on the same page. 

“It’s not something we need to rush.” He said quickly. 

“No, I’m… it’s…” The words swirled in Q’s head, and he was physically incapable of selecting the correct ones to use. “I want to, honest.”

“I know.” James replied, brushing the wet hair off of Q’s forehead. “We’ll get there.”

_We._ Q thought, his heart clenching. 

Without warning he lunged forward, closing the gap between himself and Bond. With one hand curled around the older man’s neck, and the other resting low on his stomach, Q kissed him deeply for what felt like the first time in months.


	3. Chapter 3

They collapsed together on the bed, Q lying on his back as Bond leaned over him, kneeling with his legs on either side of Q’s thighs. The shirt that Q had put on was open and sprawled over the sheets, barely concealing his skin. With one hand, Bond pressed against Q’s chest before running his fingers over the brunette’s pale skin. 

He was being careful not to dip too far back over Q’s hips, or around his sides, which Q was deeply grateful for. Instead, Bond cupped the back of Q’s neck and brought him forward so that he could run his tongue over the other's lower lip. Without hesitation, Q opened his mouth, eager to taste Bond properly. 

He pressed himself closer to Bond, desperate for the contact, and surprised himself when he began to fiddle with the lower hem of Bond’s t-shirt. He ran his long fingers underneath the fabric playfully before rucking the shirt upwards, exposing James’ stomach. Taking the prompt, Bond reached down with one hand and pulled the shirt off, and then stooped low again to kiss along Q’s neck and collarbone. His other hand, previously unoccupied, pressed tight against Q’s groin, and dipped briefly between his legs before Q froze in the middle of the kiss. Bond moved his hands immediately, and pulled back. 

“This is too soon.” He said, resting his hands on his knees. Q huffed for a moment, trying to balance his thoughts, before he looked up at Bond. 

“I was surprised.” Q said breathily. “James, please- its fine. We just need to go slow.” 

“I don’t-“

“I’ll be fine.” Q said, shifting his hips so that the thickening erection was more obvious against his thigh. Bond’s attention was temporarily diverted to the black fabric of Q’s pants, before he glanced up again. 

“We’ll go slow.” He said, fingering at the elastic band resting against Q’s waist. Patiently, Bond hooked his fingers under the band and began to pull it down, eyes studying Q’s face for the slightest hint of hesitation. All that he saw was the slight worrying of a lip, and bright eyes that urged him forward simultaneous to a slight buck of the hips. 

The pants were removed and tossed aside. Immediately, Q felt exposed, and the vulnerability that always boiled just below the surface spilled over. The most serious injuries, hidden by the bed and Q’s position, were so close. Bond knew this, read it in the look on Q’s face, and in response he moved his hands upwards once again, pressing against the center of Q’s chest. 

“You’re lovely.” Bond murmured, pressing a line of kisses from Q’s sternum to the bottom of his rib cage. “But you’re going to stay just like this.” 

“Let me-“ Q reached out towards Bond’s hips, but he was held firmly in place. 

“Not yet.” Bond murmured.”Wait here a moment.”

Bond got up, and Q made a quick effort of pulled the blankets a bit closer around him, still leaving himself laying naked on top, but cushioning the sides of his body to hide it more effectively. If Bond noticed when he came back, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he only crawled back into place by Q’s knees, a bottle of lubricant in his hand. He put the bottle aside on the bed, and ran his hands from Q’s stomach, down his legs, and to his knees. With the slightest pressure, Bond encouraged Q to shift his legs so that he was spread open, and quickly thereafter, the older man’s expert fingers were running along the skin between Q’s legs with one hand, while the other opened the bottle. He applied a coating of lubricant to both hands, pulling away from Q only because he had to. 

The tight grip of Bond’s slick hand on his cock made Q forget to breathe. This was nothing, however, next to the careful trail that Bond led behind his balls and down to the swirl of his arse. 

“James-“ Q reached for Bond again, and felt a surge of heat in his groin as he watched Bond pull his cock from his trousers, running his hand over himself while he pressed against Q’s entrance. He moved his fingers slightly, just enough to push at the outer ring of muscle, but didn’t press any farther. Instead, he jerked himself harder, eyes locked on Q’s face, on the younger man’s reactions, as he began to stroke himself faster, the head of his cock disappearing into his fist and reappearing again- swollen and hard with the desperate need to come. Q spread himself wider, just a little, and Bond took the encouragement to sink the first knuckle of one finger into him. 

The keen that escaped Q’s lips, and the eager jerk of Q’s hips, nearly made Bond lose it. Q could tell by the flutter of Bond’s eyelashes, and the streak of reddened skin that bloomed over the center of Bond’s chest. The blond was close to orgasm, much closer than Q. 

Without thinking, Q ground himself down onto Bond’s finger, angling himself so that he could feel Bond’s hand pressed flush against his skin. Q moaned, running his tongue over his lower lip as he watched Bond. The man angled his cock downwards, withdrawing his finger. For one terrifying moment, Q thought that Bond was going to fuck him, and he realized that he was not ready- not in the least. Bracing himself, Q watched wide-eyed as Bond pressed the thumb of his now-free hand against his own slit digging in a series of small circles, and then completely lost composure. The man came, hot and slick, onto Q- coating his cock, his arse, with Bond. 

Neither man moved for a split second; Q was staring, un-breathing, at Bond. Bond on the other hand, shifted from pleasure to relief to horror in the time it took for him to shift his body on the bed. 

“James, finger me.” Q said, his voice full of gravel. 

Dragging a calloused finger through his own come, Bond brought a digit down to Q’s arsehole and began to move against Q once again, this time pressing more quickly with the one finger until he was knuckle-deep inside of Q. Once he was inside, he slowed his movements down, curling and twisting his finger. 

“Fuck.” Q groaned, pressing himself against the pillow beneath his head. He cursed again when Bond hit his prostate, and squeezed his eyes shut. Bond then added a second finger, scissoring his fingers slightly to allow an easier drag of his digits in and out of Q’s body. As Bond’s fingers moved, coated in his come, he also shifted his knees so that they rested against the backs of Q’s thighs, allowing the younger man’s legs to wrap loosely around his hips. 

When a third finger was added, Q damn near screamed. Bond angled his fingers so that they would hit Q’s prostate, and with his other hand he grasped Q’s cock, stroking simultaneous to each press. Orgasm built low in Q’s belly, and then began to spread- growing until he could barely sit still from the sheer desire that riddled his body. 

Finally, Q sat bolt upright, wrapping one long arm around his lover’s neck, allowing Bond to thrust his fingers even deeper within him. Q came, shooting against his own chest with a cry that lingered in his throat. 

He collapsed forward immediately afterward, pressing his forehead against Bond’s shoulder while the other wiped his fingers on the bedsheets and threw one arm around Q’s back, using the leverage to hold Q up. 

It was the first time in a very, very long time that the bare skin of Bond’s hand touched the scars on Q’s back, and in his post-orgasm haze he couldn’t find it in himself to be as deeply concerned as he had been not even a half hour beforehand. The embarrassment hadn’t disappeared completely, however, and as a result Q tried to shift out of Bond’s grasp. Instead of allowing him, Bond wrapped another hand behind Q, this one remaining high up by his neck. 

“Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of.” Bond said suddenly, kissing the shell of Q’s ear. 

“They’re disgusting.” Q said, blushing. He wanted to go back to the post-orgasm bliss. It hadn’t lasted long enough. 

“They’re a part of you.” Bond said. “There’s nothing wrong with them.” 

“I shouldn’t have told them I was MI6.” Q said, glancing up at Bond. “I look like this because I fucked up. How can you not care about that?” 

“For all we know, Q, them knowing you were useful kept you alive.” Bond said, lifting Q’s chin and pressing a kiss against his lips. “I’m thankful every day that you have those scars, because the alternative could have been life without you.”

That wasn’t a thought process that had ever crossed Q’s mind, and he didn’t know how to respond. Instead, he shifted fractionally closer to Bond, exposing a small bit more of his back. He wouldn’t be comfortable with his skin for a bit, he knew, but if Bond could accept it so easily- and hell, consider himself _grateful_ that they existed, then maybe Q could eventually move pat them. 

Not that he was in any rush. For that moment, he was just glad to tuck into Bond’s arms, the warmth of his skin on Q’s, and feel perfectly relaxed. It had been a very, very long time since his brain was able to disengage so fully, since he had felt so close to Bond, since he had a moment where he didn’t feel like he was carrying the permanent marks of a massive fuckup. It wasn’t perfect, not by the least definitive sense of the word, but it would have to do. 

Bond got up and disappeared just long enough to get a rag from the bathroom to clean them both up. Afterwards, he handed the linen shirt back to Q, who put it on and buttoned it so that it covered his thighs. They then laid back in bed together, tracing each other’s arms and chests and hips with delicate patterns before they grasped hands, and fell asleep- holding each other more closely than they had been able to in a very long time.


End file.
